Mother Knows Best (A Margie Peterson Mystery) (24 page)

“Weird,” Becky said. “What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Maybe they’re passwords,” she suggested.

“To what?”

Before she could answer, a flash of blue and red lights played across the back wall.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

B
ecky and I stared at each other.

“Shit.”

I flipped off my flashlight and shoved the legal paper in my pocket. “Turn off your light!” I hissed.

Becky shoved her light into her purse and grabbed the files. We almost knocked each other over trying to get to the office door.

There was a cop car right outside the plate-glass windows. “Now what?” Becky asked.

“This way,” I said. We sidled down the wall of the front lobby, then I pulled her down the hallway to the elementary wing.

Although it hadn’t struck me as long earlier that day, tonight the hallway appeared to stretch the length of three football fields. I could see the faint glow of the moon through the glass doors at the end of it, but it was impossibly far away. We were only to the halfway point before I heard voices in the front lobby.

The closest door was to the boys’ bathroom. “This way,” I whispered, and yanked her through the door.

A sulfurous smell enveloped us as the door swung shut behind us. “What now?” she asked. It was pitch-black; I reached for my flashlight.

“No window,” I said. “We’ll have to hide in the stalls.”

“It reeks in here.”

“It probably reeks in jail, too.” I flashed the light over the row of stalls. “Let’s take the two at the end,” I suggested, “and pull the doors shut.”

“Won’t they see our feet?” she asked.

“Not if we stand on the toilets.”

Becky approached one of the stalls cautiously, as if there might be a wild animal inside, and nudged the door with a foot.

“I’m not going in there,” she said as I trained my light on the bowl. They might teach many things at Holy Oaks, but the mechanics of toilet flushing did not appear to be one of them.

At that moment, there was the sound of voices from the hallway. It’s amazing what the threat of a night in jail will do. Without another word of protest, Becky launched herself into the nearest stall. I followed suit, clambering onto the toilet seat next door and praying the smell would keep the cops from a close inspection.

We were perched on those toilet seats for a long time, during which I considered bringing up the topic of bathroom-cleaning protocol to the custodian I’d seen the other day. The one who looked like he’d recently retired from gang life, but wasn’t quite sold on the career change. I ended up deciding it wasn’t worth it; Elsie wasn’t going to use the boys’ room, anyway. If anything, she was more likely to relieve herself on a tree in the playground.

Ten minutes passed, and I was fervently wishing I’d stuck with yoga, before the door swung open and the lights flicked on. I flinched from the brightness, looked down, and immediately regretted it.

“God. Smells like something died in here,” a male voice said.

“At least the urinals are clear,” someone answered. “Check the stalls; I’ve got to take a leak.”

A moment later I heard a zipping sound, followed by what sounded like running water. I also heard footsteps.

The first door banged open, and then the second. I cringed, waiting for the third, but it didn’t happen. “I hate these security-alarm calls,” the low voice said. “Half our time seems to be answering false alarms.”

“The front door was unlocked,” the other voice said. There were a few last splats, and then I heard the zipper sound again.

“Probably someone forgot to lock it,” Low Voice said. “No sign of forced entry anywhere. Waste of time.”

“There’s a new Kerbey Lane just up the road,” the other guy said. “Open late. And gingerbread pancakes are on special this week.”

“Too bad the tomato menu went away,” Low Voice said wistfully. “That tomato pie was awesome.”

“I say we lock up and go check it out.”

Low Voice seemed to be in accord with the idea. A moment later, the lights flicked off and the door creaked open and closed again, leaving us in darkness. I waited until their voices had retreated down the hallway before clambering down from the toilet and stepping out of the stall, massaging my shaking quads.

I had just opened my stall door when there was a splash from the next stall over.

“Becky?”

More splashing, followed by swearing.

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not okay!” Her voice was frantic. “I slipped and put my foot in that filthy toilet. Oh my God. These are new boots, too.”

I flipped on the bathroom lights and opened the stall door. Becky was hopping on one foot, trying to unzip her left boot. Her jeans were wet halfway to the knee, and the stench was appalling.

“Let’s get you rinsed off,” I said, offering a hand. “At least you’re wearing gloves. And I’m sure the . . . well, I’m sure it will wash out of your jeans, at least.”

“I can’t wear these. I’m taking them off.”

She shook off her boots, then peeled off her jeans, leaving them in a sodden pile in the middle of the bathroom floor. Then she hopped to the sink in her pink bikini underwear and hoisted her foot under the faucet.

“What do we do with your jeans and boots?” I asked as she scrubbed her foot and ankle with pink hand soap.

“I don’t care,” she said. “Put them in the trash if you want. I’m never wearing them again. What do they feed these kids, anyway?”

“I think it was Frito pie today, actually,” I replied.

“That was a rhetorical question, Margie,” Becky said. “I think I’m going to throw up now.”

“We can’t leave your clothes here,” I said. “What if someone finds them?”

Becky pumped another cup of pink soap onto her foot. “They’re welcome to them.”

“We should probably take them with us. Maybe if we wash them off?”

“No way,” she said, shaking her head.

I sighed. “I’ll go see if I can find a plastic bag.” I retrieved my flashlight and edged into the hallway, relieved that all was quiet and dark.

The janitor’s closet was toward the end of the hall. I opened the door and flashed my light to reveal a jumble of cleaning supplies: a tangle of brooms and mops leaned up against the corner, and a row of industrial-sized jugs of window cleaner were shoved against the side wall. Rolls of paper towels, napkins, scrub brushes lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves—everything, it appeared, but trash bags.

As I riffled through the shelves, searching for a box of bags, my hand closed on something cold and metallic. I trained the light on it and sucked in my breath; it was a gun.

I pushed the rolls of toilet paper to the side, shining the light on the shelf. There was not just a gun, but also several brightly colored packets labeled
Afterburn
. I picked one up.
For High Times!
the package blared in neon-green letters, under a fuzzy graphic of something that looked like an exploding star. There were a half dozen packets, and one was open. I picked it up and sniffed it, then wished I hadn’t; the smell reminded me of the monkey enclosure at the Austin Zoo.

The name “Afterburn” rang a bell, but it took me a moment to place it. I had seen it in the newspaper, I realized with a start. This was the stuff that had killed a few teenagers over the past month or two—some kind of synthetic marijuana. What was it doing in an unlocked janitor’s closet at my daughter’s school?

Not to mention the gun. Was it loaded? I didn’t know how to check, and touching it creeped me out, so I just put the toilet paper back in front of it and kept looking for trash bags. I found a box of bags on the bottom shelf and pulled one out for Becky’s clothes, but hesitated before leaving the janitor’s closet. What was I going to do? I couldn’t just leave those things here—not with my daughter coming to school the next day.

After a moment of indecision, I pulled out a second bag and put the drug packets into it. Then I picked up the gun, shuddering at the touch—even through my latex gloves it felt cold and unpleasant.

Becky was still scrubbing her foot when I got back to the bathroom.

“I got a bag,” I told her. “And guess what I found in the janitor’s closet?”

“Disinfectant spray?” she asked.

“A gun and some packets of synthetic marijuana.”

She stopped scrubbing and looked at me. “What?”

I opened the bag and showed her the contents. “I thought the janitor seemed kind of dicey.”

“No kidding. What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “I can’t leave it here. It’s not safe for the kids!”

“Can you put it on the front desk with a note?”

“What if a kid picks it up and the gun goes off?”

“Good point,” she said, biting her lip. “Can you leave it in the closet and call in an anonymous tip?”

“There’s still a chance it will be here when the kids get here tomorrow,” I said. “I think I have to take it with me.”

“Speaking of taking it with you, can we get out of here?” she asked, turning off the water and lowering her foot to the floor.

“Let’s get your clothes picked up first,” I said. “Are you going out in your underwear?”

“Better than wearing those things,” she said. “Besides, we can go through the woods. Who’s going to see us?”

“If you’re sure,” I said, clutching the two bags in my right hand. “Ready?”

“Wait,” she said. “I can’t leave those toilets unflushed.”

I rolled my eyes. “Really?”

“They seriously need to reevaluate their housekeeping staff.”

Although my watch said that only an hour had passed since we’d arrived at Holy Oaks, it felt like a month had gone by before Becky flushed the last toilet and we eased the boys’-bathroom door open. “Let’s get out of here,” I whispered.

Becky started back toward the front lobby, but I grabbed her arm and turned her toward the door at the end of the hallway. “Just in case,” I said.

“You think?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

We padded down the terrazzo floor of the hallway toward the exit door—me in my sneakers and Becky in bare, very clean feet. “Aren’t you cold?” I asked.

“Better than smelling like crap,” she replied.

I paused when we got to the door. Opening it would probably trigger the security alarm again; I hoped the cops had ordered their pancakes by now and wouldn’t be too inclined to hurry back to the school.

“Ready?” I asked.

“I was ready an hour ago,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

The air outside was hot and humid, which was good for Becky, and what sounded like millions of cicadas and crickets droned in the greenbelt that backed Holy Oaks. “I think the path is over there,” I said, sweeping the tree line with my flashlight beam. There was a small gap between two cedar trees. “Are your feet going to be okay?”

“Do I have a choice?” she asked as we hurried across the manicured grass.

“Yeah, but it’s a shitty one.” Becky snorted, and despite the fact that we had just broken into Holy Oaks Catholic School and she was standing outside in her underwear, we both dissolved into giggles.

“We should get ourselves together and go before the cops get back,” I said finally, wiping my eyes.

“Probably. I’ll bet they wait until they’re done with their pancakes, though.”

Unfortunately, once we hit the trees the grass went away, replaced by prickly understory plants, limestone shards, and broken branches. Becky’s giggles were soon replaced by muttered expletives. I went first, trying to clear the more egregious sticks out of the path, while Becky followed. “I never should have gotten that pedicure this week,” she moaned. “They sanded off all my callouses.”

“We’re almost there, I think.”

“What’s that noise?” Becky hissed. I stopped, and then I heard it, too. Footsteps. “There’s a light,” she said. Sure enough, another flashlight bobbed through the trees ahead of us.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

L
et’s get off the trail,” I hissed to Becky. “Turn off your light.”

We both flicked off our flashlights and turned off the path, crunching into the undergrowth. I heard a clunk, then a stifled grunt from Becky, but I didn’t dare ask if she was okay. The crunching footsteps grew closer, the light roving through the cedars and oaks. I froze, hoping both of us were out of the flashlight’s range.